


Escape

by pettiot



Series: Professionals Timeline [11]
Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: M/M, Voyeurism, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-12
Updated: 2011-10-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:13:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22241620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettiot/pseuds/pettiot
Summary: Set during 'Takeaway'.  Doyle got the better part of this undercover bargain.
Relationships: Ray Doyle/Bodie
Series: Professionals Timeline [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600894
Kudos: 1





	Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Read also, [If She Were My Girl](http://archiveofourown.org/works/22241032), for background on the emotional situation Bodie finds himself in.

No sign of forced entry, only a breeze through the open window, stirring the ferns, but Esther's keys were absent from the coffee table.

Nevertheless, it was gone; the wine Doyle had left out to breathe.

'Bastard.' Annoyed at wasting adrenaline, Doyle stuck his head out the window. 'You're not supposed to be here.'

'No one saw me come, Mum.'

Doyle finished pulling himself through, then closed the sash behind him. He turned, dusting his palms on his arse. At the sight of his partner, the reprimand died unspoken.

Bodie wore faded jeans, and a dark rollneck that Doyle had given him some years ago. He sat on his jacket to spare his arse the cold from the fire escape's metal landing, knees bent up and legs wide apart. Forearms across his knees, a cigarette trailed from one limp hand. Distant streetlight shone on oily hair; obscurely, there was a smear of grey by Bodie's nose.

Oddly disturbed by the ash, Doyle bent to rub it away.

'Don't touch me. This one's contagious.'

Snatched over peaches and pennies, Bodie's communications had been sufficiently laden with complaint for Doyle to leap to his conclusion, without surveying much more than Bodie's hungry, hollowed cheeks.

'You've never got worms.'

A solemn headshake. 'Cryptic for the lad: by name if not nature.'

'Ringworm.'

'He's bright, our Ray, knows all the fun guys. Have a gander, for your prize.'

Before Doyle could gracefully decline, Bodie exhibited the blotches on his belly and forearms in turn. Rueful, Doyle displayed the obligatory interest.

'You're not sleeping with the streetkids, are you?'

The missing bottle made an appearance for two long pulls. Gun hand kept free by habit, Bodie held his cigarette in the same hand as the wine, which explained how the ash had dusted his cheek. 'For _warmth_ , Doyle. Sometimes sausages.'

Bodie's voice softened, gaze distanced. Distracted, his thumb soothed the bottle's neck.

'You alright, Bodie?'

'They're kids. With nothing left to lose but belief. There I lie, thirty-and-plus, give me your trust. The only one who's still playing games. How'd you do it, as a copper, knowing you're going to break every promise you make to them? It's -- '

Bodie hung his head. Doyle stared at a grimy nape.

'You're _alright_ , Bodie. You can't pull out.'

'S'lonely.'

Ah.

The fire escape was dim, Bodie a collation of black and void, until a surprising light cut through the window. It startled them into looking away from each other.

Esther's keys hit the coffee table, loud and obvious.

'Your cue, Ray. Back to the wifey, off you go.'

Doyle stepped away from the light, with such deliberate menace it drew Bodie's eye upward, the anticipation tight.

'Show us how lonely.'

Bodie's breath caught.

Doyle counted the heartbeats until Bodie allowed himself out, that strange, sleeping sexuality he had, locked and kept so safely tucked away Doyle had watched him palm up a naked hooker, for the job, of course, without once his lust rising.

How viciously potent Doyle felt, then, to watch as Bodie was captivated, first and foremost, by the low vee of his shirt, pulled open by his square stance.

'Don't touch me, right?'

'I won't have to, will I?' Again, that surge of power, satisfaction.

Neatly, Bodie set aside the wine, cigarette between his lips. As if it was the most natural thing to do, he unzipped and pushed his jeans and pants to his boots in a single motion, without standing. Knees apart and ankles bound, he smoothed himself out for observation, pale curve hanging so thick, as if it were a hot summer's day.

Doyle moved across the spilling light, into the warm vacant space between Bodie's thighs. A junkie without the escape of a fix, living with streetkids too young for the other. Doyle wanted to fuck every time he remembered that Bodie couldn't. He thought of it often. Poor Esther, he supposed.

The increasing constriction of his cock was marginal compared to the rest of the pain, watching Bodie. As if the warning not to touch had inflamed him, his skin was desperate for friction, even if nothing more than the scant frot available against what fabric he wore. Doyle breathed deeply. Moved chest, ribcage, hips, without motion. One roiling surface taking what was available. _Don't touch_.

Bodie dropped his cigarette, eyes smoky, hot. 'Fuck. _Ray_.'

Head and shoulders propped against the railing, Bodie never broke their gaze, right arm working hard, even as Esther, prowling the empty apartment, discovered the makings of a gourmet dinner deserted in shopping bags on the sofa.

Confused, she called Doyle's name twice.

'You and her?'

Doyle was hoarse. 'Yeah.'

Bodie, looking almost pained, drew his feet closer, pushed his knees wider. 'Not for warmth.'

'Sometimes sausage.' Doyle adjusted his stance, calves against Bodie's thighs, filling the space with pressure. An eager grunt, and Bodie's eyes closed, opened. He liked being spread.

'I'll bet. What's she like?'

Because Bodie liked it, Doyle said, 'My fingers, mostly.'

'Never all ten?'

'Eight, ingrate. One at a time. She's – tight.'

Bodie licked his lips wet. '—as me?'

'Oh, but you aren't tight, sunshine. Fucking you s'like an oversized boot. On a rainy day.'

'You've the sweetest bent sometimes.' Bodie looked dopy, smiling while distracted. His mouth kept falling slack, open. Shifted from fist to fingertips, as if begging Doyle to break their gaze, and look.

Doyle affected nonchalance, his mouth suddenly very wet. Contradictory, really, that Bodie exhibited his cock, while Ray turned to water over those unfairly thick thighs.

The best parts of him trembling now, Bodie's belt buckle chimed a familiar rhythm against the landing.

_Don't touch._

Doyle slid his boot under the pushed-down jeans, and pressed the toe against Bodie's flesh, spread bare against that crumpled leather jacket. Gasping, Bodie lurched to his side, hips thrust as far forward as he could with a relentlessly upright Doyle between his knees.

The contortion spared his clothes, by a long shot.

Then he came upright and shuddered, distracted frown pressed into Doyle's left shin, his thumb snaking along his prick, easing the ending in the way Doyle remembered. When it was over, it was a long time before he moved.

Doyle offered the bottle before Bodie had even hitched his jeans. 'Don't forget what you came for.'

On his knees, Bodie looked up, eyes dangerously bright. 'It bloody well wasn't wine.'


End file.
